


Sucker

by rosesisupposes



Series: Sucker For You  [Remile] [1]
Category: Cartoon Therapy (Web Series), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Allusion to smut, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Background eventual DLAMP, DJ Deceit, Emile is a cinnamon roll, Emile is very inked, Emile knows exactly what he's doing, Fade to Black, M/M, Remy is a useless bi, Remy is in denial, Tattoo Artist Remy, background lamp - Freeform, casual sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-07 18:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesisupposes/pseuds/rosesisupposes
Summary: Remy's life has a pattern. Create beautiful tattoos, talk shit with his best frenemy, and slay hearts on the dancefloor. He enjoys his life, and has no plans to change it.None at all.





	Sucker

**Author's Note:**

> What do you get when the two songs you've had stuck in your head are _Sucker_ by the Jonas Brothers and _How to Be a Heartbreaker_ by MARINA?  
> Some soft Remile with a _very_ bi Remy, apparently.

When Emile Picani first walked into _How Bout Tatt_ , Remy rolled his eyes. He’d been hoping his late-morning consultation would be something interesting, not this tiny man in glasses and _oh my sweet Gaga is he wearing a cardigan? Did a grandma just walk into my parlor?_ Yeah, he had pink hair, but he looked like he’d break down crying if you even _looked_ at him too hard, let alone if you were holding a tattoo gun while doing so.

“Hey there babes, I’m Remy, you’re welcome.”

“Nice to meet you!” He replied with a smile, tilting his head in confusion. “Why ‘you’re welcome’?”

Remy grinned. “Because now you’ve met me. Come on up.”

Emile followed the artist up the narrow stairs, but was clearly distracted by the eclectic decorations and framed art. He was staring at a huge Poe-inspired print of ravens and seashores when he walked straight into one of the shop’s most frequent customers. The man was a the size and shape of a professional bodybuilder, and his currently bare torso was covered with designs that spread up his neck. Anton scowled down at the cardigan-clad man, and Remy flinched in anticipation of his anger.

“Oh _gorsh,_ sorry about that! I really need to watch where I’m- ooooh! Look at those lovely designs!”

The man grunted in response.

“Is that a handwriting tattoo? Whose writing is it, if I may ask?” Emile was indicating the smallest tattoo without touching - small words right above the pec spelling out “Home” and “Soon” in different hands.

“Oh, um. Mom and sister,” Anton replied, caught off-guard.

“Aww, isn’t that sweet? That’s a great way to keep your family with you wherever you go!.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was going for,” the man offered, scratching his neck. “They’re back on the West Coast.”

“If you miss them, it doesn’t just have to be a tattoo, you know,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you could reach out and contact them more, too.”

“I don’t… I don’t know that they’ll want to hear from me, not since Dad-”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try, right? Isn’t it possible that you’re the one who feels guilty, and you’re assuming they feel the same way about you?”

“I… never thought of it like that...”

“You don’t need to have an answer right away,” Emile said, reaching up to rest a comforting hand on the huge man’s shoulder. “Just consider it, okay?”

Anton nodded, then hugged the shorter man suddenly. “Thank you.”

Emile patted his back and squeezed lightly. “Anytime, friend.”

Anton straightened, brushing away a tear, and followed his artist to the front desk.

Remy was still staring at the pink-haired man unabashedly. “What the fuck was that?”

“Just showing an interest!” Emile said, flashing a brilliant smile Remy’s way. The tattoo artist found himself speechless for what was quite possibly the first time in his entire life. He fervently hoped this cardigan-clad man couldn’t tell how flustered he suddenly felt. Silently, he gestured to the room where his bench was.

By the time they’d both settled in Remy’s corner of the studio, he’d thankfully recovered his normal mood.

“So, consult time. This is the part where you tell me what you want and I tell you it’s way too ambitious, you want it in the wrong place, and/or it’s gonna look terrible. Then I tell you my way and we do that instead.”

Emile nodded happily, unfazed. “I’d like a white lotus on my shoulder - right here,” he said, indicating the top-left of his back. “Except this one specific cartoon style.” Remy opened his mouth to say he’d need more details when Emile reached into his pocket and pulled out several folded pieces of paper. “Here’s some reference pictures I found - two or three perspectives of the in-show style, and then this nifty lil mock-up I made of about the size and placement!”

“You did your homework,” Remy murmured, looking over the papers. “I’m impressed.” Straightening, he shifted to business mode. “Full color, matching these mocks, yeah?” Emile nodded. “Gucci. From the size and position, you’re looking about about an hour, hour and a half’s worth of work, depending on how many breaks you’ll need. You can set an appointment now at the front desk, or you can email to schedule. They’ll send you prep instructions once you’ve set a date. Any questions?”

“Yes I do!” Emile said happily. Remy braced himself for the inevitable ‘how much will this hurt?’ every single first-timer asked. “Did you draw that?” he heard instead.

Remy turned where the other man was pointing at a sketch on his work table. It was a clear plastic drink cup with a tiny two-tailed merman bobbing among the ice cubes - a rough, quick drawing he’d doodled while caffeine-deprived. “Yeah, that’s mine.”

“It’s so clever! What a great little design!” the man beamed at him.

The artist was once again caught off-guard. How did this magenta-haired man make him feel the mental equivalent of ‘what do I do with my hands’? All this… earnest positivity. No transparent flattery or forced compliments. “Uh, thanks, babes. Good sign, right? Since I’ll be designing yours?”

“Yupperino!”

“...okay, cool. I’ll walk you back down.”

Remy led the way down the stairs, but kept glancing back to make sure his client wasn’t tripping while staring off at the ceiling. One of the apprentice artists was manning the front desk now, and spun their chair around at the sound of Remy and Emile approaching.

“Oh! Hey doc!” they said with a small wave.

“Elliott!” the man replied with a grin. “Do you how do?”

“Can’t complain,” the young artist replied with a smiling shrug.

“Doc?” Remy asked.

“Yeah, this is Dr. Picani,” Elliott responded. “He’s my therapist.”

Remy side-eyed the diminutive man. Suddenly the interaction with Anton made a _hell_ of a lot more sense. _He better not try to shrink his way into_ _my_ _head_.

“Elliott was actually the one who told me to come here for my next tattoo, not even knowing I’d already decided to before they told me,” Emile explained. “Seems like great minds _ink_ alike!”

Remy pinched the bridge of his nose. The unrelenting positivity was enough on its own, but the puns? He was starting to get a sugar headache. “Elliott, can you schedule the doc for his session? I need to caffeinate. Back in a few.”

* * *

That evening, in his regular barstool at _Tryst_ , Remy knocked back another gin and tonic as he complained.

“No, it’s so dumb, he’s this _tiny_ man and he just broke Anton down in like. A _second_. I don’t want that psycho-shit turning on me!”

“Wow, I’m really concerned for you,” the bartender drawled. “Much more concerned now than the first three times you’ve told this story.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Dee.”

“Can’t stop. It’s my aesthetic. I’m committed,” Dee said with a smirk.

“At least you can commit to something in your life,” Remy snarked back.

Dee snorted. “And you’re _definitely_ one to tell me about commitment.”

“Oh, haven’t you hear?” Remy asked, looking over his sunglasses. “I’m committed to the night.”

“Course you are, you hoe.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Remy wasn’t sure what it said about either of them that this was the closest friendship either had. Every time they talked over drinks or brunch, it was just this - complaints and insults with a heavy dose of gossip. Ever since Dee had started coming to _How Bout Tatt_ for his growing ink collection, they’d fallen into a cycle of perfectly-matched salt. Any boundaries they might have had were long-evaporated, and the long, curling swathe of scales that was slowly spreading up and down Dee’s body continued to grow over hours-long sessions of chatter and snark. Then, of course, they’d both come here to _Tryst_ and Dee would treat them both to drinks on the house until the downstairs club opened. He performed as ‘The DJ’ purely to revel in the confusion of the ambiguity he’d created by using his initials as his stage name.

In the early morning hours when hearts pulsed in time with with the bass, Dee and Remy had the most in common for that was when they thrived. Dee created, mixed, and modified his tracks, winding himself into the music. His beats were intoxicating, drawing in dancers and trapping them in the coils of house music until they stumbled home, exhausted yet still shivering with adrenaline. Ears still ringing, they’d ride the high back to their homes, eyes dancing with the sights of the dancefloor, all flashing lights and one tall, beautiful man who seemed to be everywhere at once. And each night, at least one lucky person would be approached, flattered, seduced into his presence. They would dance, bodies twining together under the pulsing lights and beats. At the end of the night, teasing hands would lead them to a flat, where the dance continued, frantic and messy, heat and hoarse whispers melding together into nonsensical pleasure.

In the morning, they’d wake to find freshly-brewed coffee in an empty apartment. And no matter how many times they returned to _Tryst_ , they’d never be chosen again.

“I have one rule, hun. No repeats.”

That was the response text to those who happened to acquire his number, and his drawl to those who tried to approach him another night. There were no other limits - not gender or height or even ability to dance. Just mutual attraction, and never again. Remy didn’t _do_ relationships, or monotony.

“I keep telling you, it’s called _monogamy_ , not monotony”

“I see no difference.”

“Take off those fucking sunglasses, then, you poser.”

“I’ll have you know they are _polarized_ and they are currently making your tattoo look better, bitch.”

Dee shifted on the table, stretching his side out and relaxing back into his current pose. “Well clearly you need the help, so I’ll let it slide.”

“Bastard.”

Dee just grinned and lay still on his side as Remy continued to ink scales down his side onto his hip. His pain tolerance was incredibly high, only showing in the occasional closed eyes or short intakes of breath. When the two hours were up, Remy cleaned the new scars and wrapped them in protective plastic.

“Here’s your aftercare instructions,” Remy said, handing the man a printout. “Take the wrap off in three hours, then don’t recover it. Only use After-Ink’d or A&D ointment on it, and saran wrap when you shower.”

“You think I don’t know by now?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who let the last round get infected by being a dumbass.”

 _“Fiiiiinnne,”_ Dee grumbled, taking the instructions.

“Now get out, I have another session after you.”

“Oh?” Dee turned back from walking out the door. “Normally you tell your clients to cry about it when you’re running late.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I just want you gone.”

“Maybe your next client is that doctor you won’t shut up about,” Dee said airily.

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous,” Remy insisted, pushing past the other man to the stairs. The bell at the entrance jangled cheerily as a client walked in.

“Elliott! You are today how?”

“Doin’ good, thanks doc.”

Dee turned to Remy, a knowing smirk stretched all the way across his face. Remy shoved him in the shoulder, desperately hoping he wasn’t blushing.

“Hey, doctor, come on up.”

“You can just call me Emile, you know!” he responded with a bright smile. Remy looked away, pointedly ignoring Dee’s obscene hand gestures and the distractingly warm feeling he got from seeing the doctor’s grin.

Remy led the way back to his bench, where an assistant tech had wiped everything down and brought new water bottles. Remy pulled out the blue-ink mockup he’d made from the file folders in his desk.

“So, here’s your sketch in real size. We’ll place it and make sure you like the look before we start inking, sound good?”

Emile nodded. “Do you have somewhere I can put my clothes in the meantime?”

Remy gestured to the cubbies on the side of the studio. “The bathroom’s right there if you’d rather change there-”

“Oh, no need,” Emile said, pulling off his sweater and collared shirt in one movement. Remy’s eyes were immediately drawn to the man’s torso. Normally hidden by his layers, the curves of defined muscles and abs were now very, _very_ apparent. Exposure to many a man’s unclothed body didn’t mean Remy was unmoved by any of them. And Emile… Emile was _hot_.

“Something wrong?” the cheerful man asked. Remy dragged his eyes back up to the man’s open face.

“I, uh. I didn’t realize…” He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim his dignity. “I didn’t realize you’d already been inked.”

“Oh, you like them?” Emile said, unaware or kindly ignoring Remy’s distraction. “This was my first.” He sat up on the bench, close to Remy, to show him a delicate outline of the Disney castle behind his ear. “Nice and small, so I don’t scare away any clients. Then there’s my Powerpuff Girls, or at least their hairdos!” He smoothed a fond hand over the colored silhouettes  that marched from ribs to hip on his left side. “And then this one was from a couple of years back, from My Little Pony.” He pointed to a bright magenta six-pointed star on his right tricep, wrapped in a scroll that read “True, True Friend.”

“They’re _great,”_ Remy said with feeling, still unable to keep his eyes off the man’s muscled torso.

“You should see the ones on my legs! Maybe when I get the next one I’m planning.”

 _I would like to see every inch of you,_ Remy thought, but thankfully didn’t say aloud. “That would be chill! Now, let’s get this blue-line on you so I don’t take up too much of your time.”

“Oh, feel free to take as much of my time as you need,” the man replied cheerily, swinging his legs slightly as he sat on Remy’s bench. Remy was convinced Emile was trying to kill him with all these _adorable_ comments that clearly weren’t flirting, but that he desperately wished were. He forced himself to focus on carefully placing the blue sketch in the correct orientation on Emile’s ~~muscled, perfect~~ shoulder, then peeled back the paper to let the lines remain. Picking up an extra mirror, he gestured to have Emile come over to the full-length mirror on the wall.

“Here, take a look. Anything wrong, even just a little bit off, let me know now.”

Emile turned the mirror this way and that before smiling. “It looks perfect!”

“Excellent. Now’s a good time to grab water, or a snack, or use the bathroom.”

“Oh, I got myself ready before I got here - we can start right away. How do you want me?” he asked, popping himself up onto the bench once more.

Remy was going to die. His brain kept suggesting the many implications of every part of Emile’s sentence. _Back, back, you animal,_ he shouted at the part of his mind that now presented all the different positions he’d love to see this man in. _He is a client, dammit._

“Uh, just on your stomach. With your arm and shoulder relaxed. Do you want a pillow, or music?”

“That would be dandy! I have a playlist already, too.”

_See, he’s just a sweet man who loves cartoons. He’s not suggesting anything you’re thinking of._

_He’s way too good for you._

Remy busied himself with getting Emile a pillow, arranging his inks, hooking up the speakers, all to stave off that very uncharacteristic thought. He tested his tattoo gun’s rhythm, confirming the correct speed. Snapping on rubber gloves, he got out his wipes and razor, cleaning Emile’s shoulder and shaving any light hairs away.  

“No latex allergies, right?”

“None I’ve encountered yet,” Emile responded, a little muffled from the pillow. “And I’ve had a fair amount of exposure.”

 _Shut up,_ he snapped to his overactive mind. _Latex comes up in so many contexts. Not just condoms. Get yourself out of the goddamn gutter._

The part of his mind that sounded like Dee’s unrelenting sarcasm whispered, _How can you leave the only place you’ve ever been?_

“Okay, I’m going to begin. Make sure to breathe out and keep your shoulder as relaxed as possible.”

“No prob, Bob!”

The playlist Emile created sang “We are the Crystal Gems!” as Remy began to work. It was a fairly simple design, with clean lines. He focused on following those lines as he braced his hand against the man’s back and was not at all distracted by the feel of warm skin and shifting cords of muscles underneath it.

Emile proved himself a veteran, only stopping for a break after a full forty-five minutes of work. Then he stretched, drank water, nibbled on nuts he’d brought, and kept beaming at Remy as they chatted about the city and the weather. Remy’s cheeks kept warming as if that smile was the sun itself shining on him.

“But since I’m still so new to town, I don’t have all my favorite haunts picked out yet! There’s a coffee shop close by that I’m a fan of - their pastries are delicious, and the hot chocolate divine. Plus, they make their own bread!”

“Oh, _Rise and Shine?_ Yeah, that’s my favorite, too. I go there so often they have a special named after me.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t run into you there, then! Hopefully I will soon, it would be an even better pick-me-up than the cocoa,” Emile said, stretching. The shift of muscles under taut, golden skin was a siren song that Remy desperately tried to ignore. “What’s your drink called?”

“It’s the ‘Rem Brulee Latte’. The owner really likes puns.”

“Well, you sound delicious. I’ll have to try it sometime,” Emile said, laying back down. Remy was sure he’d hallucinated the wink that went along with the cheerful comment. “Do you have any recommendations of bars near here? Something with a nice drink selection, and maybe dancing?”

“There’s always  _Tryst,_ ” Remy blurted before he could stop himself. “I mean, I go there a lot, I like it, it might not be your style, and it’s definitely very loud late at night…”

“I’ll try anything once!” Emile said, eyes closed as he settled onto the bench once more. “I’m sure your taste is excellent.”

“Thanks, babes,” Remy responded. Regular compliments. Those he could do. And that megawatt smile was no longer directed at him, so his brain wasn’t quite so scrambled. He got back to work, cleaning up lines and adding color. It felt like almost no time at all before he was wiping down the shiny red skin, treating it and covering it, and walking through the aftercare instructions that he could recite in his sleep.

“Thank you so much, Remy! I’ll make sure to take a picture once it’s healed for your portfolio!”

“I hope I’ll see you around before that,” Remy said, smiling. Emile looked up from grabbing his clothes and smiled back, somehow brighter than before. His mouth moved, but Remy had absolutely no idea what he said. His brain had short-circuited, and all he could do was smile and nod as Emile carefully buttoned his shirt back on over the bandages.

That evening at _Tryst_ found Remy with his head planted face-first into the bar.

“He’s so _pretty,_ what the fuck am I going to do? I was speechless! Multiple times! Me, speechless!”

“Wow, that does sound terrible,” Dee drawled. “Can’t imagine how unfortunate it would be if you couldn’t speak.”

“How can he so easily affect me? I sleep with guys as hot as him practically every night!”

“I mean, since you apparently love shrinks now,” Dee said, cleaning a glass. “I’d say it’s because this one isn’t immediately draping himself all over you. He’s unattainable, so that makes him irresistible.” Remy lifted his head to glare at his friend, who merely shrugged. “Or, I’m talking out my ass and you’re just pathetic. I like that answer too.”

“Just get me another margarita, asshole,” Remy growled. “I’m not going to let this night be a total waste.”

That night, Remy danced and flirted even harder than normal. He threw himself into the middle of the mass of people, feeling the press of bodies on every side. Admiring hands ran down his sides as he reveled in his dominion. _This_ made sense. It was simple: just the bass vibrating through his bones, music pulsing in his ears, and the blood thrumming in his veins. He twirled through the crowd, returning touches and exchanging smiles, promising nothing but hinting at everything. Under purple and pink lights he moved with finesse and smoothness, until suddenly he came face-to-face with Emile.

The buttoned-up therapist was transformed. He was in body-hugging black tank with “Could Be Gayer” written in rainbow letters and pants that were so tight they might have been leggings. He still had his glasses, but with a cat-eye that made Remy want to weep from envy.

Actually, everything about his appearance made Remy want to weep. He was just _too hot_. But why the hell was he here?

Remy grabbed Emile’s hand and dragged him to the edge of the dancefloor, where it was just quiet enough to actually talk. Emile followed willingly, not seeming to notice the smirks or jealous glares that followed them.

“Hi, Remy!” Emile said as they reached the quieter spot.

“Hey, Emile, I- I’m surprised to see you here. You look-” he swallowed. “You look good. Different. But good.”

“You’re surprised? But I asked you if you’d mind me intruding, earlier today. Right before I left. And you nodded.”

Remy blessed the dark and flashing lights that hid his blush as he realized that this was what he’d been too ~~bi~~ distracted to hear before. “Ah, yes. I guess I forgot you meant tonight.”

“Oh, no worries! I’m just happy to be here!”

“I’m a bit surprised, hun. Doesn’t seem like your type of scene,” Remy said, gazing out over the writhing mass of the dancefloor.

“I love dancing! And the people here are… fascinating,” Emile said thoughtfully. He grabbed Remy’s hand and grinned. “Come dance with me!”

“Lead the way, hot stuff,” Remy replied. He was in his space, surrounded by his people, doing something he did almost every night. He didn’t have to be flustered if he just followed his pattern.

Plus, maybe Dee was right. Maybe he just needed to win Emile’s attention, and then he’d get over this _infatuation._ He let himself be towed back into the fray and resumed dancing when Emile did. But now, his movements had a focus, had a center. A fixed point that he kept returning to, though he hesitated to touch the shorter man more than just on the hand.

Though when another denizen of the dancefloor nearly bumped him, Remy’s arm snapped out, a protective arc keeping the huge man back. Emile took the opportunity to lean in, snaking an arm down to grip Remy’s waist. Remy looked down into Emile’s face, where a smile stretched slowly as he made eye contact with the tall artist. He saw a flicker of something that would have been familiar on any other face in the club - the darkened eyes and crooked smile of a face promising both mischief and pleasure. Emile pulled Remy closer in, bodies pressed up against one another, and continued to dance, swaying his hips in a tantalizing and terribly distracting way.

Remy let his arm fall to loosely drape around the shorter man’s non-tattooed shoulder and brought up his other hand to grab the man’s hip. He had an itching need to keep the man away from the other dancers, to keep him apart. _I’m probably just possessive because he’s my client,_ he assured himself. Then he shot a fierce glare at another man who tried to cut in, only to feel Emile’s body shake with a badly concealed giggle.

“Worried someone’s going to steal me?” he asked, standing on his tiptoes to speak into Remy’s ear.

“I- he just seemed rude!” Remy responded, practically shouting to be heard over Dee’s beats.

“Okee dokee, artichokee!” Emile agreed, smiling as he leaned into the music once more.

 _Oh my Beyonce, I am_ _fucked_ , Remy thought to himself. His cheeks were hot, and his skin was itching. He just wanted this man closer, and closer. He wanted to keep everyone else away, to have him alone, to take him in his arms and…

“Remy, may I kiss you?”

A cool hand was on the back of his neck, tugging him down towards those beautiful, wide eyes. Emile’s words barely registered as Remy’s brain checked out completely and he gave in to his instincts, wrapping both arms around him and bringing their lips together. Unlike every other kiss he’d exchanged on this dancefloor, this wasn’t a messy haze of tongues and desire. It felt like sweetness and sunshine was being poured into his brain, intoxicating but restrained.

When they finally broke apart, Remy found himself blinking into Emile’s eyes, smiling. “Babes, can I… would you come home with me?” he asked. He was _jittery,_ not confident in the answer in the way he normally was. It wasn’t a benevolent offer made with a lazy self-assurance, but an actual plea.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Emile replied with a coy smile. The shorter man began making his way off the dance floor and towards the door. Remy followed, practically floating as he snaked through the crowd.

He wanted to be in contact somehow the whole walk home, but it wasn’t the normal desperate grabbing of two people waiting impatiently to get each other undressed as soon as possible. Remy was _holding his hand_ as they walked, and yet it felt more exposed and needy than when he and a partner had practically stripped in an alley from impatience. He guided Emile upstairs to his flat, hand on the small of the other man’s back. Pushing in through the door, he grabbed Emile’s hips again, with both hands. Resting his forehead against the smaller man’s, he breathed, “I want this, Emile. I want _you._ Is that- do you? Is this okay?”

Emile answered by catching his lips in another kiss. It was a hot chocolate kiss - still sweet, but indulgent, rich, and blazing hot. Emile nipped his lips as he withdrew, making Remy’s breath hitch.

“That’s a yes, then?” he asked huskily. Emile nodded, a smile that looked a lot like a smirk playing across his lips. Rather than continue to embarrass himself, Remy pulled him to his bedroom, stealing as many kisses as he could while still moving towards his bed.

* * *

Dee, I need you to meet me at the coffee shop  
  
It is a DEFCON 1 emergency  
  
more like DICKCON   
  
what did you do   
  
fuck u i need help.  
  
i’ll be there in 5. get here asap  
  
ugh fine i’ll be there

“So, what kind of emergency? I’m assuming not one in your pants, we both know I won’t touch anything down there,” Dee drawled as he settled in the back corner of _Rise & Shine._ Remy had changed clothes and showered, but managed to look as bedraggled as if he’d been awake 48 hours straight and spent 36 of them on public transit.

“No, it’s - did you see who I brought home last night?”

“Hmm, let me think, there are so many I can barely recall…”

“I’m being serious, bitch.”

Dee rolled his eyes. “Yes, I saw. They were a good height for you, and I could see the muscles from the booth. Risky to go out with new tattoo bandages though…”

“That was Emile.”

Dee’s eyebrows shot straight into his messy blonde-and-brown bangs. “Hot _damn,_ that’s the doc? I retract exactly one snarky comment about your obsession. It is apparently at least a little deserved.”

Remy slumped into the table, clutching his namesake drink. “I’m so utterly fucked.”

“I assume you meant “I was”,” Dee said with a suggestive grin. “Y’all went home _early_ for you, did he not keep you up?”

“Oh, he did,” Remy muttered. “And that’s the emergency.”

“Hoe, you better start talking straight. I woke up early for this.”

“I… he was one of the best I’ve ever had but not just physically. He just gets this look whenever he smiles at me and I’m…” He turned his face fully into the table. “Iwancallimgain.”

“What?”

“I want to call him again, Dee. I want to have… a repeat.”

Dee whistled. “Dangg, that good? Does he have like, two dicks?”

“Hey, don’t talk about him like that!” Remy insisted.

“Wow, you really are gone for this guy, aren’t you. I mean, break your own rule then. Call him.”

“...I don’t have his number.”

Dee sighed. “Rem, you know you’re my best friend, to the extent that I ‘do’ friends. And you’re a massive bitch, and I love you for it. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you wallow in sadness because of one the best things to happen to you in months. I know you collect clients’ numbers at _How Bout Tatt_. Go look his up, be upfront, and be a goddamn gentleman if he turns you down, capisce?”

“I don’t wanna be turned down,” Remy told the table.

“Welcome to the fucking club, boo. No one does. Risk it anyway.”

“Okay.”

Remy handed his empty ceramic mug to one of the waiters, who flashed them both a bright smile from under a mop of fluffy auburn hair.

“Hmm, speaking of risks,” Dee mused. “You know the names of all the staff here, right?”

“Of course I do, I love my glorious caffeine-providing demigods. That one’s Roman.”

“Roman,” Dee rolled the name over his tongue. “That sounds delicious.”

“Hun, he’s taken.”

“By who?”

Remy gestured at the counter, where Roman leaned as he chatted with the purple-haired barista. One man in glasses manned the registers, and another was a second barista, his face focused as he steamed milk and ground beans.

“Which one?”

“All three.”

Dee gazed over them all. “Yeah, I can work with that,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Remy nervously sent Emile a text that afternoon, agonizing over the wording until he finally closed his eyes and hit send.

Hi there! This is Remy, from How Bout Tatt  
  
I hope you don’t mind - I got your number from our system  
  
I had a lot of fun yesterday and would love to see you again if you’re interested?

It was the most desperate he’d ever felt. He was _asking_. He could be rejected. This hadn’t happened to him since… well, since Dee and he mutually agreed to never sleep together. And the anxiety had been nothing like this. If he didn’t hear back soon, he was going to explode, he just knew it. It was good thing he only had consults today, his hands were way too shaky to ink anyone. He sat at his desk, doodling, and found himself drawing tattoos that weren’t of his own design. A hot dog with “If Every Porkchop Were Perfect.” A little blue alien hugging the word “Ohana.” Both were from Emile’s calves, part of the collection Remy had help add to only the day before. He’d woken this morning and not left bed immediately, letting himself bask in the glow. He hadn’t slipped out, leaving only breakfast and coffee in his wake. He’d stayed in that wonderful, warm bed, tracing the pattern of the ink across Emile’s skin without touching. When the man’s eyes had fluttered open, he’d gotten to see a new smile, a sleepy, lazy, content smile that made him want to kiss him over and over again just to know what a sunrise tasted like. And they’d talked, husky and low with sleep, and Emile had muttered about future tattoos, and Remy may have promised to do them all for free if Emile would just shut up and kiss him _right now_.

He stopped, looking down at his sketchbook, and realized with a blush that he’d started sketching out Emile’s face. He blushed deeply, glad no one else was in the studio with him today, when his phone buzzed and he dove to check it.

Hiya Remy! I’m so glad you texted - I meant to ask for you number and it just slipped my mind!   
  
Are you free tonight?

_I’m free any night you want me_

_Why wait? I’m free in an hour_

_Do you have time between clients? I can come right now_

Yes I am  
  
Oh goody! How’s dinner sound?

Remy stared at the screen. He realized that he’d… never been on a dinner date. He only met people in the club, never stuck around long enough to be able to talk through a whole meal. He had absolutely no idea what to expect.

Sounds great!

* * *

One month later, a lazy Saturday afternoon found him gently easing himself out of bed to not wake a sleeping Emile. He made coffee, a nice medium roast that they’d both like. He fried eggs, and toasted bagels (one onion and one sesame, but split so that they each had a half). He arranged the plates on the kitchen table, made brighter by a little Funko Pop of Amethyst, Remy’s favorite character of Emile’s favorite show that they’d been (re-)watching together. He checked his phone and grinned at texts from Dee, the faux complaints that the _Tryst_ regulars were all heartbroken, followed by much drunker texts that consisted of eggplant emojis and the occasional mis-sent string of hearts with “roro” or “pat” in the middle.

He snuck back into the bedroom and leaned over, kissing Emile’s forehead gently. The man blinked into wakefulness, fluffy pink hair sticking up at all angles and flopping over his face.

“Good morning, hun,” Remy said softly.

“G’morning, honeybear,” Emile responded, sitting up to kiss him properly. “Why’re you up so early?”

“I have a surprise for you, sweetheart,” Remy grinned, leading the way to the main room. Emile pulled on Spongebob pajama bottoms and shuffled after him, still stretching. His white lotus tattoo was fully healed now, and the colors were starting to settle.

“Tada,” Remy said, gesturing to the setup at the table. Emile smiled and came over to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek, then on the lips.

“Sugarplum, what’s all this for? Is there an occasion I missed?”

“Nothing at all,” Remy replied in a sleepy mockery of his usual drawl. “I just wanted to. Not to sound soft or anything, but babes?”

“Yes, dearest?”

 Remy still melted at each and every pet name, and laced their fingers together so he could kiss Emile’s hand. “I’m an absolute sucker for you.”

Grinning, Emile kissed Remy again, slow and sweet, kisses dissolving into the golden haze of a weekend morning, from here to the end of time.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Part 2 is a NSFW companion piece to this one-shot, detailing the fade-to-black scene of Remy and Emile and ending in _copious_ pillow talk fluff. Proceed at your own risk! 💖


End file.
